


Temporary Masterpiece

by Jean_The_Bean_Queen



Series: Paint Me With Your Love [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Because I don't know what to do for my other story, Breakups, Last Part, M/M, Paint Imagery, Past Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, and procrastination, in the name of poetry, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:57:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jean_The_Bean_Queen/pseuds/Jean_The_Bean_Queen
Summary: The end was not an emotional affair.





	Temporary Masterpiece

Their paint was cracking, chipping. The fibers of their canvas were loosening, splintering, fraying, falling away. Shining crystals built gradually behind hairs of a paintbrush, behind eyelids, making brown eyes seem to be glasses of filthy water, contaminated with every color paint imaginable. Painted skies no longer colored Alexander’s skin, but he still felt as if pallet knives were sawing at his flesh. Too dull to slice, but sharp enough to break skin over repeated friction.

The emerald paint had long rubbed off of Thomas, but the explosive reds hidden beneath were fading. Words no longer seeped into him like poison, his blood no longer polluted with such harmful chemicals, but he still became ill, his charred skin burned white.

They were no longer angry. No longer upset or frustrated, exasperated and tired. They were no longer drowning. But without the water filling their lungs, they no longer experienced the euphoria that comes with suffocation.

Alexander was the one to leave. It was Thomas’s apartment after all, his own painting, the one that had Thomas' signature even though it was Alexander who had painted it. There was no tears, no smiles, sighs of relief, shouting, anger, slaps or hits, hugs or kisses. Not even a mutual understanding was present. Just numbness. Like a monochrome gray, no life, just muted words of agreement. Thomas considered begging, considered forcing the man back inside, and Alexander considered staying, considered throwing an insult at the man so he could look at him for just a moment longer. But instead, he lifted his bag and left, going off into the unfittingly vibrant world. Thomas sits alone in his fittingly bland kitchen, liquid relief in hand.

Neither of them were glad. Neither of them were upset. But both of them yearned. They were clashing works of art, two pieces from different puzzles, but they understood the other. Knew of their dreams and ambitions, their ways of showing love, how every hit is the same as a caress and every insult the same as a love confession. They were two schoolboys hopelessly in love. Taught to be angry when faced with enamor, taught of violence and cruelty as the appropriate response.

Their spark became a forest fire, their ocean a source of tidal waves, and when peace finally fell, irreversible damage had already been done. Their painting was ill-kept, falling apart, crumbling. But it had been beautiful, a beauty that could not be recreated or found in another artist’s work. Paints were mixed with no real formula, intended for the moment they were layered on the canvas and that moment only. They both knew that no matter what piece they were to create next, it would be nowhere near as phenomenal in passion or hate, but it would most definitely be framed, kept safe on a wall, instead of exposed to harsh winds and rain, snow and scorching heat.

 

Their masterpiece was temporary. They had known it from the moment they realized their canvas was alive and breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> I just felt like finishing this series I had begun on a whim. I just felt like creating something different from the main story I'm writing now.


End file.
